The Fault of Women
by Meelu the Bold
Summary: When we can simply ignore our suspicions without consequence, why should we ever try to prove them? LouisexPent, sorta.


Like many of her earlier implementations, Countess Louise's institution of Miranda into her own home was a failure and brought Louise nothing but grief. Louise, although of noble birth, lacked training and grooming that befitted a woman of her station. In part her deficiency was her own father's inability to think of her as anything but a third son, but it was also her own. Even after her wedding, she made no effort to become a proper lady as quickly as she should have.

Again, this was only partially her fault. The young Count Reglay had almost immediately begun a steady pattern of ignoring his wife almost entirely in favor of very deep study into his true spouse, the practice of Anima magic. Although the servants and footmen of Reglay assured her that this was normal procedure for the lord, Louise could not help feeling abandoned and somewhat tricked.

Count Reglay, according to his cook, had lost his parents to a hurricane at a young age and his only consolation had been the books they left him. Until that year he had been wholly disinterested in magic—Louise's eyebrows shot up at that. The cook, a woman of forty years, laughed at her drastic reaction and offered her another scone. It hadn't taken long for the help to realize that Louise was more like a layman than a lady and did the best they could to advise her. The cook, in almost all ways her 'mother-in-law,' saw immediately she was a good, discreet lass (the best kind) with a sweet nature and unorthodox skills.

Because that day it was raining heavily, Louise had not tried to practice her archery and instead turned to pursue the fine art of ladyship. She sat cross legged on a stepstool by the kitchen fire, wrapped in a thick blanket and reading over many letters to Count Reglay that he had unintentionally ignored. Louise held up the most interesting for the cook to see as well—one from the King, one from a baron, from a farmer. The reading got dull after a long while, though, and Louise watched the raindrops through the kitchen door, open briefly so that the cook could have her little lackeys breeze in and out at a moment's notice.

She had a curious thought—are all those droplets separate from one another or do some of them meet midair? She looked down at her work to find that she was no longer holding a petition from several farmers for a lesser partition of crops but a letter from Count Caerleon, the great refuge himself. Caerleon was infamous for aiding those in dire need—but even he had limits and bounds. It seemed that a young woman of bastard lineage had recently lost her half-brother, who supported her. When the lord had died, the successor had not wanted to keep on a half-something of no inheritance or even significance and the girl—Miranda—had been shuttled into the care of three consecutive keepers and not one of them had kept her for more than four or five months. Now, Count Caerleon was asking for Reglay's generosity and charity, etc., etc., and beseeched him to find a place in his heart (and in his home) for the poor child.

Louise imagined Miranda to be a destitute little girl indeed, if she was so lacking in allies that not even Caerleon could care for her. She asked the cook what she thought.

"There's got to be a reason," the cook remarked dryly. Louise rolled her eyes. "Why none of the lordly folk seem to be able to put her up. But I say fine. A little altruism isn't the worst thing to be stricken by."

"Do you think the Count will mind?" Louise wondered aloud, already making her own decision.

"Won't even notice her," the cook replied and both women laughed aloud.

Indeed, because the Count almost didn't see her when she stepped into his library. She had knocked loudly for almost three minutes, a sufficient warning in her humble opinion. The library was like being swallowed by books. So much text and binding and musty paper smell made Louise dizzy and almost gave her a headache. She resolved to be quick.

"My lord? Lord Pent. Lord Pent?" Louise announced, approaching the desk where he was diligently at work. She glanced at the tome, propped open on his left, and was alarmed to see that she could understand none of it. He did not lift his head. Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Louise gently grasped the binding of the book he was deeply immersed in and tugged it out of his vision.

"Oh, Louise. When did you come in?" he asked, blinking like there were still one or two sentences still in his eyes. Louise showed him the letter.

"Caerleon has asked us to give refuge to this poor girl," Louise began. She wondered if her husband would allow her immediately or if she would need to argue, as her mother often did with her father.

Lord Pent paused for one long moment, holding her in suspense for much longer than was necessary. Louise fidgeted as she watched her bookish husband think. On a brighter day, perhaps, she would enlist the help of Martch and Cole, two of the cook's strong laborers and drag Lord Pent outside for a day in the sun with her. The thought was lovely and she was smiling when Lord Pent looked up again. He nodded his approval.

"Of course. Those in privilege must always seek to aid those in need," Lord Pent said, setting aside his book and producing a sheet of paper and his pen. "I'll write personally to Caerleon. Thank you, Louise."

He, too, smiled and Louise felt a sense of accomplishment. She exited without further disturbing him. She spent the rest of the day with the cook and the help in the kitchen, laughing and joking until dinner. When word came down that Louise would be eating alone at the grand table, she abandoned the official dining room and ate in the kitchen with her friends. She and her mother had been afraid of how she would be treated as Reglay's wife, but other than an absent husband, Louise found herself unable to complain. Perhaps when Miranda came, she would have a new companion too.

**..0..**

Accounts of Miranda's youth, however, had been greatly exaggerated. Miranda was older than Louise. She wore very old clothing, but it was well-made and well-cared for and very rich for a bastard daughter. Miranda wore her hair in a looped bun at the base of her long supple neck and her body was shaped like a delicate tree. Her features, too, were reminiscent of some sort of wood nymph and at first, Louise was reminded of all those women that had sought after Lord Pent alongside her. Miranda was escorted by one lone soldier in Caerleon's colors on a horse that was probably not her own. Louise stood waiting in the courtyard, backed by the cook, Martch and Cole (to carry Miranda's belongings).

"I must thank you a thousand times, Countess Reglay," Miranda said, in a south Etrurian accent. She dismounted on her own, as though she was used to doing so. Louise recognized the cap and the staff—Miranda held the small title of Valkyrie, it seemed. She had been born and raised on the water's edge, Louise soon learned. The nobility had the quality of the sea in their speech and it seemed that Miranda did too. "This will be the first. Thank you."

The two women embraced, as women do when they meet. "I humbly accept your gratitude, but it is hardly deserved. We have many rooms in our home, most of them unused," Louise said warmly. She teetered between opinions, as is normal when first meeting a newcomer—Miranda was intelligent and beautiful, but Louise knew well that those two qualities did not always make for a good person.

"Nonsense," Miranda said, dipping low to show her reverence. "But where is the Count himself, so that I may thank him too? And your children?"

"My lord husband has locked himself away in his library," Louise explained, keeping a level of affection in her voice. "And we have no children yet."

Miranda raised an eyebrow and Louise felt worried. Had she revealed something too personal? It was the simple truth. She was not yet pregnant, for very obvious reasons—obvious to her. Louise decided not to let Miranda know about her rarely consummated marriage. It was between her and Lord Pent, after all. The silence, though, compounded with Miranda's peculiar expression, made her uneasy.

"I'm certain that a beautiful young woman like you won't remain childless for long," Miranda said playfully after only a second of tense quietness.

"I can only pray," Louise said, trying to regain ground, to assert herself. "But my lord husband is always so busy. Don't be surprised if you never see him in all your stay here."

"Louise, is this our guest?"

Louise spun around sharp-eyed and accusing but changed her expression quickly. It was not Lord Pent's fault. He had no idea what she had said—he was a skilled magician, not psychic. Still, she felt out of sorts and somewhat betrayed, having her husband contradict her so easily. At least he had found the presence of mind to brush his hair and change clothes, something he could go for days without. Somehow, Louise found that made her feel worse.

"I am Pent. Welcome to our home, Lady Miranda," the count said, nodding his head and smiling. That was normal. Lord Pent was generally a cheerful (if bookish) man and it would have been strange had he not greeted Miranda so warmly. Louise smiled too.

"Well, it seems that I've been proven wrong," Louise joked, putting a spin on her words to save them. Lord Pent looked at her befuddled. "I was just speaking of you, my lord."

Lord Pent laughed and shook his head. "I'm afraid whatever my wife said is true. What did she say?"

"That I would never see you in my stay here," Miranda replied smoothly. "What a charming estate you have, Count Reglay."

"Thank you," Lord Pent said appropriately, but the conversation had stopped being about him. "Unfortunately, I seem to have disproved my wife's pre—"

"Why don't I have Martch and Cole carry your things to where you will be staying?" Louise said through her smile. "Forgive me, Lord Pent, but Miranda looks so very tired."

"I am a little fatigued. Caerleon is quite a distance and we made it in four days," Miranda said, putting her hand to her forehead. Lord Pent looked deeply intrigued.

"Really? What route did you take? I've always sought a way to travel more effectively within Etruria. Could you show me on a map?" Lord Pent asked the guest. Louise thought she heard eagerness in his voice and suddenly wanted to hit him, like she would a rowdy child.

"Maybe later," Louise suggested, trying to wrest back control of the conversation. She tried to squelch the presence of regret in her heart, but already she had been convinced. She had to get Miranda out of her house.

**..0..**

The cook agreed, but she also pointed out that Louise had been the one to invite Miranda here. Throwing her out only days after her arrival would be devastating to Louise's reputation, especially give Miranda's history. Lord Pent would have to be the one to strike that blow or Miranda would need to leave of her own accord. The cook jokingly suggested having her killed. Louise almost choked on her tart when she caught herself thinking that a hunting accident would be easy to arrange.

Miranda, however detestable, had a friendly and intelligent character and Louise enjoyed her enough when the subject was something they shared—Miranda rode horses as a certified Valkyrie and both she and Louise had (surprisingly) read the same novels. To her shock, Miranda played the harp as hideously as she did and for an hour they talked of all the time they wasted practicing on something that would ultimately end in failure. The only time Louise ever felt resentful was when the conversation turned to her faulty marriage or the absent Lord Pent—who apparently went out of his way to talk to Miranda.

This dominated at least half the conversation she had with Miranda. The woman's favorite and most well-used phrase was: "Lord Pent told me in passing . . ." or "The Count and I had the most interesting discussion . . ." and then she would proceed to _tell_ Louise everything that had conspired, down to the look in Lord Pent's eyes when he finished one of the lengthy arguments he seemingly gave Miranda on any given subject.

Louise was used to sleeping alone in the lady's bedroom—Lord Pent had a cot set in the library and generally fell asleep fully clothed and sometimes standing—but lately, every night's absence made her nervous and jealous. She had a cat that slept on the pillow beside her head. Although the cook and the servants had been gently treading around the subject, almost no one doubted that Lord Pent favored Miranda's company to his wife's. It was like she was being protected, she thought idly. She didn't think of from what. She didn't want to.

It was the cat that awoke her. Louise propped herself up on her elbow's and stroked the creature's dark ears—she had named the animal Delila, and it was fat with pregnancy from some unknown tomcat. Louise had confined Delila to her bedroom in anticipation of the kittens. Unable to fall back asleep, as is common with late night stirrings, Louise lay on her side and watched the darkness swirl around the familiar and dim shapes of her chamber. Her breath stopped as a light flickered under her door and passed her by with some unknown urgency.

A servant, probably Mareil the night girl, bringing up coffee for the Count. Louise rationalized the light easily, but something worm-like and burrowing found itself deep inside her breast and she pushed back the coverlet and found her dressing gown in the dark. Wrapping herself tightly, Louise waited a moment and opened her door, meaning to follow it. The light seemed symbolic, almost, although Louise did not understand why. She forwent her slippers—she was quieter, on the cool flooring, with just her soft bare feet.

The light had passed in this direction, but the direction led to a fork in the hallway and Louise could not see it. She knew she would need to hurry to catch it. Louise fingered her braid, her special nervous habit, and made a decision. She took the way that led to her husband's library. Just as she rounded the corner, she saw a glimpse of the light again. If it was Mareil, this would make sense. Louise slowed her breathing and quickened her pace.

The light took a right, fading along the decorated corridor and bounced off the high ceiling left over from the days of opulence five hundred years ago, when the ancestral Reglay castle had been constructed. This close it was easy to track and Louise had to be careful to stay far away so that she herself was not seen.

Ridiculous, she chided herself, Mareil would not mind the company. Despite her job, Mareil hated the dark and liked to trade naughty jokes with Louise. Louise would be welcome to catch up, tap Mareil's shoulder and take her arm as the maidservant delivered Lord Pent's coffee. Then, they'd both go below stairs and—very carefully, so as not to wake the cook's big husky watchdog—boil water for hot chocolate and swap fairy stories. The idea was so enticing Louise almost thought to do just that.

What if it wasn't Mareil, though? Louise kept her distance from the light out of fear. Around the corner she heard a door shut softly. Outside the library, just as decoration, some fool lord thought to put stone gargoyles by the rounded wooden door. Louise saw them by the torchlight, sagelight as they called it, posted just outside so that Lord Pent didn't kill himself if he thought to leave his library at some odd hour. The blue of the flame lit their faces in an evil way. The library had two open ended corridors leading out from it like prongs and she hand come through only one, the most direct way from the wing where nobility and guests slept. Mareil would have come through the right, direct from the kitchen, almost, with little deviation. It did not lead past Louise's door.

Louise looked to see if she had missed the light, if it had gone another way. She did not see it anywhere. It was as though she had lost it.

Lord Pent was _her_ husband. He married _her._ She had some rights. She had the right to open that door. She thought of what she might say, what she might see. Probably, Pent had gone to retrieve something from his own bedroom and had accidentally awoken her. Maybe it was a book. She could open the door and say, "I couldn't sleep, and I saw your light. What is it that you are working on?"

No, too contrived. "I was lonely and wondered if you'd like to talk." Too desperate.

"I wanted to know if you were alone."

Louise felt herself burying those words that she had not even said yet. How dare she! Lord Pent was an honest man and a faithful husband. She would just open the door. He would be hunched over some book for the military and she'd have to tug it away from him to even get his attention. Louise reached for the handle, but found that she could not touch it. Steeling herself, she jerked her hand forward and gripped the iron handle, ready to push. Beneath the din of her emotion she thought she heard some kind of phantom laughter, two voices of both a man and a woman, coming from behind the wood. Choking a cry, she released the handle and ran away.

**..0..**

For whatever reason, not long after that, Miranda became very ill with a deadly ailment and had to leave for a quarantined hospital. Lord Pent never confessed anything to his wife, and eventually Louise had to wonder if her suspicions had been groundless.

In time, Lord Pent reformed himself and passed on his example to his young pupil, Erk, a ward who met with less opposition with Louise—perhaps it was that Erk was younger and unthreatening. Miranda's departure and replacement seemed almost orchestrated in its passiveness.

Perhaps it was.

It was several years later that Countess Louise, mother of young lord Cline and very pregnant with what she hoped was a little girl that she could spoil rotten, received a brown enveloped letter. It was sealed shut with a wax wing, the emblem of Saint Elimine's hallowed convent and hospital. Louise had not thought about Miranda in many years, and when she did, she thought about the door. She had been a child then. She hadn't even understood her own fears—her fear of being usurped and disrupted, her fear of an affair between her husband and a woman like a tree nymph. When she was left alone by the courier, Louise found the desk in her bedroom with the false bottom only she knew about and put the letter inside. She shut it and left to talk with the cook about dinner plans—Erk and his new wife were coming to stay with them for a season while the revolt in the south died down and were expected tonight.

An astute reader would have noted that Countess Reglay had not opened the letter. Never within her lifetime did she open it. Perhaps she did not want to know. Many women would have chosen never to know.Louise, just like with the door, could not bear to open it and have her happy world crash around her needlessly when she could prevent it by never reading Miranda's last confession.


End file.
